


Field Work

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Amputation, Gen, Gore, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin's lack of battle skill catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field Work

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: can you write a fic where Armin loses a limb? (one leg preferred :D) I prefer it concentrating on the moment rather than its angsty aftermath
> 
> As ever, concrit more than welcome!

Armin isn’t entirely sure what he did that put him within the titan’s reach. In one moment he is on the back of his horse, not safe but not in immediate danger, which is all anyone can really ask for on this side of Wall Rose. They are returning from a short but successful mission.

The next moment the world spins, wildly, horribly out of control. Armin hits the ground and even though he manages to roll, absorbing some small amount of the force that blackens out his vision and drives pain through his ribs like a spear, he can do little else but lie there on the root gnarled ground. What happened? His head hurts, thoughts escaping like smoke. His arms and legs feel as if they’re attached only very distantly. After a moment he drags himself into a crawl without quite knowing what he is doing, or where he needs to go, other than the instinctual knowledge of _not here_.

The hands that closes around him are as strong as stone. Fingers dig into his body, squeezing his ribs and crushing the soft organs in his belly. Armin’s mind is blank, a snowstorm of animal terror and pain. The blade handles fall from his nerveless fingers.

His eyes are open, the gel inside them beating with his staccato pulse, but all he can see is a blur of upside down scenery as he is lifted up. He struggles, kicking out and prying with weak hands at the giant fingers. Very distantly he is aware that there is a protocol he needs to follow, but he can not grasp it.

He feels heat and hears the crack before he becomes aware of any pain – but when the pain comes it is all encompassing. Armin screams, and screams. His mind sharpens to a point, the agony of his left leg wiping away all else. His bones are ground open, flesh torn away, a small eternity in which the pain does not stop. Then it does, and he falls again. This time, when he lands, the breath cannot escape his throat to scream. He drags himself forward with trembling hands, bursts of white agony blinding him every time his leg jars against the uneven ground.

He is rolled on to his back and he lashes out, but his hands are held down. It is their Captain Levi kneeling by his hips, holding his damaged leg up by the back of the knee.

“Stay still,” he snaps, and Armin shudders to mindlessly comply. His eyes fix on the pale face and small, sharp eyes. Levi is doing something with his blade, mouth turned down. Armin follows his gaze.

His leg pours blood. There is no knee left, only ragged, raw flesh, shards of bone and ends of snapped ligament protruding from the red, sodden mess. The boot, torn along its length, is the only thing stopping the muscle of his calf from hanging down at the ankle like a long red slug – it is detached from the bone, which has fragmented into cracked, splintering pieces.

Levi is cutting away the remains of his gear straps. Then he takes the dripping leather and wraps it around Armin’s upper thigh, pulling it tight it until his knuckles turn white with the pressure. Ah. A field amputation. Armin cannot stop staring, separated by a sudden, deep sense of remoteness. He feels cold. The pain has drained away.

“Eren!” Levi snaps, and Eren is there, a solid presence by Armin’s head, eyes wide and drawn. “Stop him struggling. Keep him flat.”

Armin doesn’t think he is struggling, but Eren leans down and wraps him up in his arms anyway, trapping Armin’s hands against his chest. He presses his forehead to Armin’s shoulder.

He is sweating. They both are, Armin realises. His hands are jittering and he can’t manage to still them. He can’t feel either of his legs. What is Levi doing?

Armin is suddenly unable to get enough air, and starts to twist. His breathing is ragged, short pants. He needs to get up. His leg. The titans. “Eren,” he gasps, “Eren please, Eren–” He doesn’t know what he needs Eren to do. He still can’t feel any pain and that is wrong, he doesn’t understand, why can’t he, why? Why is Eren holding him down? He can’t breath. He is so cold.

Levi stands, his hands and wrists red slicked. “Eren,” he says, voice strangely quiet, and distant. “Get him on your horse and back to headquarters. Needless to say, if you chose to be an idiot and transform now, he will die.”

Armin gags as he is picked up. He sees a boot lying discarded on the ground, filled up with mangled meat and bone, blood leaking into the soil. It takes him a moment to grasp that it’s his own boot, and another to realise that the meat inside is the remnants of the meat of his own leg. 

He cannot take his eyes off it, even as he is settled in front of Eren on the horse. He trembles uncontrollably. How can that be his leg? He can’t seem to balance in the saddle. When they start to ride, Eren’s arms around him to hold the reins, Armin looks down. His right leg is splattered in blood, trousers sticking to his skin, sucking at the 3DM straps. His left leg ends in a bundled wad of red soaked, dripping cloth, tied over a crude tourniquet, several inches above where the knee should be.

The pain starts to return as they continue to ride – inching upwards, every bump and jolt like a knife stab. It will be at least an hour before they return.

Eren takes the reins in one hand, freeing his arm to curl around Armin, holding him tight in place as they start to ride faster. Armin grips this anchor with one hand, the other clutching the saddle. He curls over, forehead brushing the horse’s mane, and tries not to scream.


End file.
